Today was not his day. The green and white robes, stained by blood, soot, and dirt, seemed to drag behind him; several times they caught on the gurney’s makeshift runners. Annoyed, he stopped at the quartermaster’s table – a stop he’d intended to make regardless. The man glanced up at him, then at the stretcher, then back to him, baffled.
“Weapons at this table, armor at the other. You ain’t got either.”
“I need a knife,” Wilt demanded.
“Well, this ain’t a charity drive, man. If you lost your knife, submit a requisition like usual.”
Wilt nodded to the statue in the square’s center. “I need a knife to cut down the Vandu. And some thin pliers.”
“Well why didn’tcha say so?” the quartermaster said, frowning. “Somebody’s gotta do it, ‘cause I can’t stand starin’ at that thing any longer. It ain’t no shrine to the Mother, that’s for sure. Whoever done it gots a sick god they’s trying to please.”
Wilt almost laughed. He questioned whether he should tell the man that he was that god, or at least, that he would be.
The Quartermaster ducked under his table and rifled through a small toolbox. Rising, he placed a pair of pliers on the table, before turning to the pile of arms behind him, and pulling a knife from the top. The fool offered it to him blade first.
“It’s not a shrine, it’s a warning.” Easing past the blade, Wilt accepted the knife with his good hand and tucked it into his belt. “The Vandu don’t like traitors.”
The quartermaster turned and spat. “Savages,” he said. “No wonder the Dekahnian’s drove ‘em outta the city.”
“Is that what they say?” Wilt asked.
“Sure is. Saw ‘em ride out myself.”
“Saw them yourself, huh? Which way’d they go?”
“North. Probably back to their forests.”
“The Vandu don’t live in the forest.”
“Course they do,” the quartermaster sneered. “What’re you stupid? Why do ya think they’re such heathens? It’s the treetops. Can’t feel the gods’ love underneath all them leaves. Plus, all demons live in forests ‘cause they’re afraid of us decent folk. Everyone knows that.”
Wilt glanced to the man’s lapel. He might be serving as a quartermaster, but his insignia marked him as a steward. The man had passed through the rot and still understood nothing of Wilt’s people. Gods, was I that stupid when I was in his place? Instead of responding, Wilt shrugged, retrieved the pliers, and set off toward the statue.
He was coming to learn that most people were stupid, and not for any fault in their mind, but because of their beliefs. Followers latch onto belief like a log in the rapids. It is easier to hide their minds beneath layers of ‘facts’ than it is to think for themselves. Why think when another can do it for you? Why question the words of dear Mister Twil? Surely, he wants nothing but to help me and to make my life better. He could not possibly have his own motives. After all, he states his facts with such conviction. Only a man who knows can have such confidence. Thieves do not work with words, they skulk through the night with lock picks and knives. Imbeciles.
Reaching the statue, Wilt glared at his dead uncle. It may have been the god’s meddling that made me see the truth, but here is the charlatan that taught me what people truly are. They are selfish monsters, willing to murder their fathers and siblings for their own gain. We are beasts without constraint. I underestimated the god. A ruler is necessary, to rein in the rabble with an iron fist. They are too stupid and too foolish to rule themselves. Too heartless and too selfish to make their own decisions.
Wilt climbed onto the pedestal, looped an arm behind the noose, and began sawing. I am a slave. I am a follower. But here is the ruler that ruled over me, hanging from a neck broken by his own subjects. His skull is too thick to make him a crown, but I shall make him something far better. I shall make him a collar, one befitting a man like him. A ruler too weak to rule. A ruler who turned to others to keep his control. Pathetic.
When Wilt managed to become Death, he would not need to rely upon followers or slaves.
The rope snapped and his uncle toppled. Even without the force of the noose, Locust’s head continued to stare down toward its chest. As the body landed, it made a cracking sound, but the corpse remained stiff and motionless, held in the same position. Though it lay on its back, the spine remained arched and the arms rigid, positioned at Locust’s sides as if he still hung limp and lifeless. Thinking of all the man had done to him, Wilt spat.
Wilt levered his hand under the man’s arms and hoisted him onto the stretcher. The bastard was heavy, and several times Wilt’s broken finger bent under the weight, sending shooting pain through his limbs, but he didn’t care. Any pain was worth this, to not only see this villain dead, but to be the man who adorned his corpse; it was beautiful.
Hoisting the stretcher, Wilt set off toward the gates. He reached the alley alongside the wall, and with a glance to make certain he wasn’t being watched, pulled his victim into the shadows. Wilt found the pitted husk of some fool’s home, in which he had spent the night, and forced the body into the narrow opening beneath the collapsed roof. It was a small shelter, barely large enough for one beneath the blackened beams of last night’s fire, but for this, it would do. Sitting in the opening with his back to the alley, he positioned the stretcher on the floor before him, so that he sat facing the corpse’s right side.
It took a lever – a battered length of metal pipe, to be exact – and most of Wilt’s strength to pry open Locust’s jaw. The effort was worth it. Blood from the broken neck had swept up into the corpse’s mouth and then drained, leaving a red sheen over the pointed teeth and the purple, bloated tongue. Retrieving the pliers from his belt, Wilt gave a smile to match his uncle’s.
He chose the man’s top left canine to start with – because the canines were Locust’s only teeth that were naturally sharp – and braced it between the pliers. With a single yank, he pulled it loose then held it up for examination. The thing was rotten above the gums, as black and pitted as the wood of this hovel. As black as his heart and as feeble as his desires. He repositioned the tooth so the point was free then pressed it to Locust’s neck. The pliers were thin enough that he did not need the sticks he had flattened for this task. With a stone, he struck the tooth’s end, driving the point into Locust’s neck. The tooth cracked, but the point bit into the hard flesh. Easing the plier’s grip, Wilt shook Locust’s head. Though broken, the tooth remained put.
One by one, he removed his uncle’s teeth. For once, he was happy for his uncle’s sharpened incisors; each of which he drove into Snail’s neck. Those teeth which were too flat to pierce the flesh, Wilt removed anyway. With his rock, he shattered them into pieces and then lodged those into Locust’s barbed and pearly collar.
This one is for Grandfather, he recited with the first tooth. And this is for Lilt’s betrayal, he said with the second. This is for choosing yourself above your family. And this for forcing my parents to sell me; I am sure you would have preferred that I died, and maybe their choice saved my life, but it would not have been needed if you had not murdered Grandfather.
With each tooth, he condemned his uncle. There were enough teeth or fragments of teeth to ring the entire neck with moderate spacing. The work relaxed him, it eased the burden that he had carried for three decades. He had seen his uncle Snail slip the poison into Grandfather’s glass. He had tried to warn Grandfather, tried to stop Snail, but he had been too late. He had failed the person he loved most and now that failure was ended. With this collar, he crowned the bitch who had stolen his life and his people. The dog was dead, and Wilt’s only regret was that he had not been able to fashion this collar while the man still lived, squirming beneath his touch, and crying for forgiveness and mercy. The man deserved nothing.
This should have been a coronation, Wilt thought. Of not only you, but also me. You the bitch, and me the master. Consul Death, god and leader of the Vandu.
He saved the top rig
ht canine for last. The Gods’ Tooth. The tooth of heritage. The tooth that represented a man’s vigor. Wilt did not drive this tooth into Locust’s collar. Instead, he let it drop into the throat. The man had no vigor. He had no heritage. He was a betrayer, worthy of a betrayer’s death.
Finished, he dragged the corpse out of the ruin and toward the small garden behind the broken hovel. He found the hole he had dug the night before, and rolled his uncle into the earth. “You shall return to the earth, for you are not worthy of the sky. The rot shall claim your betrayer’s bones, and the worms shall feast upon your flesh. The Farmer will use your blood to fertilize his foul crops. You are not Vandu. You are not Locust. You are Snail, son of none, father of scum. There will be no great hunt for you. You shall not join our fallen warriors in their search for vengeance. You will toil in the earth, until your bones become brittle and wither to nothingness, like the farmers of old. You are forgotten, Snail, Betrayer of the Vandu; the Farmer’s Bitch.”
Wilt spat on the rotter’s corpse then lifted his shovel to begin piling dirt onto the body.
“That was quite the speech.” Cold metal grazed Wilt’s neck. “From what I’ve heard, you gave a great one last night. Turn around, Priest Twil. Carefully now, else I push you into that hole with the consul.”
Wilt tightened his hands round the handle in his grip.
“I wouldn’t risk it,” Beda said, her voice monotone. “I can put this spear through you before you can lift that shovel.”
“And maybe that’s my hope.”
The commander was silent for a moment. With his back to her, he couldn’t read her features, but if his memory served, with this woman, that would be a difficult thing regardless.
“You’re lying,” she finally said. “I’ve watched you all morning. A man with a death wish doesn’t go to this much trouble.” With a flicker of reflected light, the spear point drifted toward Locust’s corpse then back to Wilt’s neck.
“Hah,” Wilt exaggerated. “What do you know of Death and its wishes? What you see here is the last burst of anger in a broken man. Once I bury him, I will walk to the pyres, and with this knife at my belt, slit open my neck and fall back to await the flames. The Mother will finally have me then, the way she wanted me all along, as her god of Death.”
The commander sucked air through her teeth. “I do not understand your Trellish dramaticism. Why kill yourself? You are Trellish. Your side has won.”
“No, Commander. I am Vandu, and I do not have a side, I have only masters.”
“And who are they?”
“Girl, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
The haft of the spear cracked into his broken finger. “Commander will do,” Beda warned.
Bent over his throbbing hand, Wilt spat at her feet.
“Turn around.”
“Why?” Wilt hissed.
“I want to see your face.”
“Just kill me.”
“No.”
“I am tired of cowing to threats, just kill me, woman.” The haft cracked again.
“Gods,” Wilt squealed, “you’re as bad as Just.” Despite his protestations, he turned to face her as he nursed his finger. He tried to force his best smile.
As he had expected, Commander Stills’ face was as unreadable as ever, her jaw held tight and her cheeks hollow. When he turned, she raised the spear and put it at rest with the butt in the soil.
“These masters,” Beda said. “They have wronged you?”
Too angry to speak, Wilt nodded.
“Trellish?”
“What?”
“Your masters are Trellish?”
“I suppose he is.”
“You suppose?”
“My master is something far worse than a Legion soldier.”
“Whorespawn?” she said, looking unperturbed by the implication.
“You’re aware of them?”
Beda shrugged.
“What do you know?” Wilt demanded.
“Enough.” Her face remained rigid.
Wilt had lived all these weeks thinking himself unique in his knowledge, but here, this woman seemed to know everything. When I told her I was the king’s spy, was I playing her, or was she playing me? He needed to know.
“Why have you followed me?” Wilt asked.
Again, she shrugged. “I told you to stay put.”
“That is not a reason. You want something from me.”
“Vengeance, maybe?” she offered.
“No,” Wilt frowned. “If it were vengeance, I would be dead already. It is something else.”
“Sure about that?”
“Yes.”
“Then maybe I want information before the vengeance.”
Wilt narrowed his eyes to slits. “Then I’d be strapped to a table in a dungeon somewhere. What is it that you want?”
“Not vengeance,” she stated. “But that’s what you want, yes?”
Wilt chuckled. “It won’t happen. I have been slapped down and back into sense.” To prove it to her, he lifted his broken finger to his chin.
“But it is what you want?”
“More than death.”
“Against who?” she asked.
“My master.”
“And if that is the case, why are you so elusive?”
“Because you would not believe me.”
In silence, Commander Stills considered him for a moment. “Will spite suffice?” she asked.
“What?”
“I believe that your hatred is genuine, which means that I can trust you, or at the very least, use you to my advantage. If I cannot give you vengeance, is spite enough?”
Glancing at his finger, Wilt blinked. After last night, he knew better than to challenge Just; he would never get the vengeance he sought. But it sounded good. He might never have vengeance against the god, he might not be able to pull loose the man’s teeth and adorn him a collar like he had done here, but he could make the god’s life more difficult. He could foil the god’s plans and disrupt his desires. But what of the pain? He was in pain regardless. Whether he failed or succeeded, the god would punish him. The only release would be death… But it is too much to lie down and die. I cannot let the rotter win without a fight.
“Yes,” he answered. “Spite is enough.”
“Then help me.”
“With what?”
“You were a Trellish spy?”
“Yes.”
“They know you?”
“Yes.”
Beda’s smile was grim. The way she grinned made the act look painful. “The Trellish Grand has taken a hostage,” she said. “A young woman named Null.”
“The young butcherspawn? We’ve met.”
“Yes,” Beda nodded. “She is being held in the king’s palace, and if the Trellish can be believed, the queen with her. So far, my spies have been able to enter the courtyard, but not the palace. I want to know where they are and how to get them out.”
“It will not work,” Wilt said.
“And why is that?”
“Because you do not understand your foe. It is likely that he has heard everything you just said. It is likely he has heard everything you have ever said.”
“Then why is he not here to stop me now?”
Wilt frowned. The god was omniscient, Wilt was certain of it, but she made a good point. If Just were omniscient, with his power, he could destroy this woman from afar, as he had done with Wilt’s finger. So, what stopped him? And the curse. It grows weaker. I no longer feel the pain when I resist him.
He wanted to help her, if only to spite the god, but he couldn’t overcome the doubt. “You will die,” he warned. “Or worse. He is not a foe that can be beaten.”
“Then I die,” Beda stated. “But I must try. If you wish to help me, there is a loose stone on the wall of the library, near the courtyard’s rear gate. It is carved with the symbol of three parallel lines. You can write?”
Wilt nodded.
“Leave any missives
there. All I need is the location of their prison.” With that final word, she turned and headed for the alley. Her calm demeanor infuriated him. She did not understand what she faced, and expected Wilt to help her without telling him her reasons.
How can she have such confidence? Surely it is based in ignorance, else she would not be so nonchalant. Wilt’s anger roiled to a head. “You insufferable wench,” he spat. “If I could act beneath his notice, do you think I would want to die? There is nothing that can be done. He will always win!”
The commander did not face him. A third time, she shrugged. “Then go out to the pyres and cut your wrists.” She continued on her way without another word.
He wanted to scream at her, to rail against her insolence, but for once he had nothing to say. Anything. Anything would do. Finally, he found something. “It will be my throat!” he corrected, but there was no answer. She was already gone.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
The queen hovered by the door as the legionnaire sealed it behind him. Null expected the queen’s smile to vanish once Bell was gone, but it did not. The queen nodded as she turned and walked to her desk. With her son’s death only the day before, Null couldn’t help but think the queen’s demeanor odd.
“You were rather friendly with that man,” Null said as she found a seat in one of the armchairs near the fireplace, one facing the queen’s drafting table. “Is he so vital to our escape?”
“Escape?” the queen asked. “The two of us could walk out of here right now if we so desired.” Blinking, the queen’s head swiveled to Null. “Is that what you desire, Null?”
Null thought for a moment. “No, Queen, I am content at your side, it is just that… considering the circumstances, you were very social with that man.”
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 80